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Jacobi had new information from our contact at the FBI. He said, “The evidence from our bridge victims and the one in the LA parking lot matches. Same type of injuries, and they found a granule of RDX.”
“Nice of the FBI to keep us posted. But I’m still working a double homicide by hamburger bomb.”
“You know what, Boxer? Leave it with the Feds. It’s their case. They’ve got the mega-lab and the manpower. We’ve got plenty to do in our own backyard.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yeah, right. Would that work?”
No. It wouldn’t.
“I’m working the case, Jacobi.”
I called Donna Timko, head of Chuck’s Prime product development, but after learning that she was out of town for the day, Conklin and I got Holly Restrepo out of holding.
We gave the woman an intensive six-hour, three-way chat, and she entirely, adamantly stuck to her story. Namely, her bastard husband had been th
reatening her. She didn’t remember anything until we arrived and she was holding the shotgun and Rudolfo was bleeding out on the floor.
My sweetheart of a partner said, “Holly, time is flying. If you tell us you shot Rudolfo in self-defense, you might be able to work out a deal. If he dies, you’re looking at capital murder. You’ll never touch your children again.”
Holly Restrepo rolled her crazy-twitchy eyes and said, “Do I seem like I’m in my right mind?”
Yes, she did.
She was practicing her insanity defense on us.
It was that kind of day. Frustrating and haunted by belly bombs yet to explode. I was ready for it to be over.
I’d been home for about ten minutes and had just hung up my jacket and unpacked my gun when Cindy’s ID came up on my home phone.
“Linds, may I come over?”
“Of course. Joe’s making veggie lasagna. Get your skinny butt over here.”
A half hour later, Cindy bounced in, looking cute in jeans and a pink cardigan, with a rhinestone barrette in her hair. She also looked wired.
“I need some baby love,” she said.
“Sit yourself down.”
Cindy reached out her arms, and Joe handed Julie over. For a woman who didn’t want kids—not now!—she took to holding our little one like she held babies every day.
She made intense small talk with Julie, nothing deep or personal apart from asking her if she preferred Leno or Letterman, causing Julie to burble, which made me laugh out loud. I had to tear Julie away from Cindy so I could put her down before dinner.
Cindy picked at her lasagna, and she asked Joe the kinds of questions that come easily to a reporter. She even asked follow-up questions. I continued to feel that something was bothering her, though—and she didn’t care to discuss it in front of Joe.
Whatever was stuck in her shoe, she softened it with a couple of glasses of wine, then turned down coffee and dessert in favor of a third glass, effectively killing the bottle. About then, Joe said he had some calls to make. He kissed the top of Cindy’s curly-haired head and left the room.
I said to Cindy in my best film noir cop growl, “Okay, sister. Start talking.”
CHAPTER 36
CINDY CAREFULLY SET her wineglass down on the coffee table, kicked off her ballet flats, and curled up in a corner of the couch. I sat across from her in Joe’s big leather chair.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“You’re going to kill me,” said Cindy, “but I wish you wouldn’t.”
